Somber Thoughts of Burning Planets
by Second steps thE DUCK
Summary: A Courier is chased through a desert, harried by beasts of black and white. He watches the world, and learns it isn't too far off from his own.
1. Aint That a Kick in the Head

**Fair Warning, mentions of Rape and graphic descriptions of violence.**

**I own nothing.**

A man was running at full tilt through a vast expanse of desert, stumbling over unseen rocks as a vicious sandstorm raged around him. He turns, drawing a peculiar revolver and fires behind him, still back peddling all the while. The shots are hard to make out over the loud growls and pure animal exclamations of feral hunger, not even mentioning the whipping wind.

The man's unseen assailants make their presence known not necessarily through physical injury to the man, instead their dogged persistence causes insidious exhaustion, making the man stumble and slow.

Three more shots, more yelps of pain. Arcing lightning in the sandstorm illuminating the darkness of night, showing more of the man than just the glowing red eyes he sports on a heavily armored gas mask. High quality Riot gear sits under a duster, two rifles framing the design of a black spade with the gold numbers _21 _inside. The flapping of the wind reveals more weaponry hidden on the man, a sawed off shotgun and two shoulder holstered pistols.

A slash from the sandy darkness opens the man's gasmask with a puff of filtered air as he tumbles to the ground. He quickly spins around, gripping the shotgun at his hip with his left hand, he draws with lightning fast speed, blasting two _Big Booms _at the vicious animal just about to land on top of him after a pounce, sending the black and white beast flying backwards.

He rolls to his feet, limping thanks to a twisted ankle and continues his retreat. A fluid motion reloads his shotgun, but the sand in his mask makes it hard to breathe. He coughs, but cannot remove his mask to wrap his face with something else.

He stumbles for another mile, before collapsing in the sand. He lays there, waiting for the storm to pass and hoping beyond hope that the creatures that harried him wouldn't find him. He prayed, for the first time he could remember. Not even a Burned man could get him to pray. But now that true fear gripped him like a course, wet blanket, he prayed.

He didn't pray for salvation, nor did he repent for his sins, he merely spoke an introduction, and offered thanks for his life. For he felt he deserved nothing more than what he had.

He wasn't afraid to die, he was afraid to die uselessly.

He lay still in the sand, letting it pile on top of him inch by inch, until eventually the wind calmed and the heat of the sun returned to the desert. He shook himself free of the sand, standing as the course particles fell away from him like a rock waterfall.

His guns would need cleaning.

He marched his way onto the top of a dune, trying to prevent himself from sliding down the precarious piece of landscape. After some struggle, he reached the top, gazing out across the horizon as the sun rose behind him.

Something catches his eye as he squints, before he brings out a pair of battered binoculars from a pocket inside his duster. A town, or whatever this ramshackle village could be called. What seemed to be permanent living spaces were built out of scavenged sheets of metal and rotted wood. Folks darted through the maze of alleys and gravel paths, trying to remain unseen as they went about their business.

A high scavenged wall of ruined vehicles and more sheets of metal ringed the town, one gate served as the only way in, and the only out. Both sanctuary and prison.

Activity on the wall, men and women in strange desert garb began scurrying about atop the rickety guard towers and walkways, yelling at one another as if they had seen something awful. And that awful sight was quickly made clear as a convoy of desert scuffed vehicles quickly sped towards the town, before breaking off into two groups in order to encircle the town. Words were spoken between the townsfolk and the vehicle men, but they were lost in the wind before they could reach the slowly approaching drifter.

While he was still merely a speck in the distance, the townsfolk eventually acceded to the demands of the vehicle men, opening the gate and letting a number drive inside. From the sounds of shouting and things breaking, it was unknown to the drifter whether or not it was the correct choice to let them in.

Regardless, he trudged onwards towards the town. His canteen was empty, he had exhausted his food, and he needed to repair his gear. Necessity didn't necessarily mean he would be going in unprepared however, quickly drawing his revolver and shotgun in order to make sure they were still operable. After re-holstering the two weapons, and a quick adjustment of his duster and armor, his only visible weapons were the two rifles on his back.

A long walk later, and the man was outside the loose ring of vehicles. On closer inspection, they were all of peculiar design, nothing like the bombed out husks the man had seen in his travels. They were newer, obviously designed for the terrain, and didn't show any signs of having been scavenged and repaired from the brink of destruction.

It piqued the Drifters interest.

Manned gun turrets and flamethrowers were mounted on the backs of trucks, and an intricate and artistic design of a cactus was emblazoned in faded white paint on the doors and hoods of the vehicles. It was all very disconcerting, but the Drifter was as prepared as he could be.

Eventually he was spotted, as was inevitable.

"Hey! Stop right there!" Was shouted out from one of the gunmen on the turrets, swiveling around to point menacingly at the Drifter. "What's your business here, stranger?" The gunmen continued, seemingly wary of outright robbing the well-armed and armored man.

The drifter, who's only features the man could discern was his left eye, courtesy of a gouged claw mark and a shattered lens, replied in a parched, slightly gravelly voice. "Looking to rest. Need to purchase some supplies as well." He leaned around the man's vehicle, taking a look towards the town. "I've got good caps, and I'm not picky with who I'm trading with, if you catch my meaning."

The gunner squinted at the man's strange terminology, but didn't question it. "Go right on in then, and try not to cause any trouble." The gunner said sleazily, unable to keep his intentions off of his face. It was obvious that the Drifter was walking into a trap, or at least he was walking into the middle of a group of very dangerous and desperate men. That didn't really matter to him much however, as he had been in worse situations.

While he might have left the town to their own fate in another time, he wouldn't last long in the desert without any water, so it was vital to secure regardless of the risk.

The sandy gravel paths were deserted as he slowly marched his way through the walls. Without turning to look, the Drifter knew the raiders were arguing over which piece of gear they would be getting off of him.

His guns jingled and jangled against his armor, the sound amplified by the silence around him. He was on high alert, head on a swivel. Hopefully this could go down without any fighting, but he wasn't about to make the mistake of believing in these raiders pacifism.

A minutes' walk through and he was approaching what would serve as the town square; voices carried through the surrounding area, often loud and gleefully malicious.

He rounded a corner, making sure to stay out of sight. Though what he saw made his so called 'hackles' raise. A man was watching, as a woman he obviously cared for was violated in front of him. He didn't move, didn't try to help or stop the raiders despite the fact that he was unrestrained. A crowd was just behind him, villagers all of them. This must have been a regular occurrence, as the women looked ashen and resigned, and the men did nothing but close their eyes and wait. Some even watched the vile act with grossly perverted gazes. They vastly outnumbered the raiders, yet did nothing.

The sight sent his thoughts spiraling to other atrocities burned into his mind.

"_What lessons did you teach here?" _The Drifter said, voice shaky as he carefully watched the surrounding, faceless legionaries and the mongrel dogs that surrounded him.

"_Where to begin? That they are weak, and we are strong? This much was known already." _A fox headed, soft voiced man said. _"But the depths of their moral sickness, their dissolution? Nipton serves as the perfect object lesson"_

"_What exactly happened here?" _The Drifter asked again.

"_Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt. It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself – the people here didn't care. It was a town of whores. For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap. Only when I sprang it did they realise they were caught inside it, too." _The fox headed man – Vulpes Inculta – finished.

"_You captured everyone?" _The Drifter said, still shaky.

"_Yes, and herded them to the center of town. I told them their sins, the foremost being disloyalty. I told them that when Legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch. And I announced the lottery."_

"_Each clutched his ticket, hoping it would set him free. Each did nothing, even when 'loved ones' were dragged away to be killed." _Vulpes continued.

"_You slaughtered innocent civilians?" _The Drifter asked, anger coating his tone.

"_Hah! Innocent? Hardly. Cowardly though. They outnumbered us, yet not once did they try to resist. They stood and watched as their fellows were butchered, crucified, and burned. One by one. They stood and hoped their turn would not come. Each cared only for himself." _Vulpes finished with quiet derision.

The Drifters nose curled up in disgust at the memory, the smells, sights and sounds all hitting him as if he was there in that very moment. He was taught moral calibre and controlled cruelty by Caesar and his Legion, not aspects one would ever attribute to the barbaric horde. He hated Vulpes Inculta for his actions in Nipton, but seeing the moral bankruptcy of the citizens of this town put into perspective what he must have felt when he burned the town to the ground. It was better to die fighting for your life than to let it be controlled by someone else.

But these raiders weren't here for a purpose, at least not one beyond animal satisfaction. They weren't here to send a message, or spread their ways. They weren't here because they thought they were better than anyone else. They were the exact Profligates Vulpes crucified and burned, the exact men the Drifter shot with extreme prejudice.

When the Think Tank repaired the Drifters memories, it really put into perspective the Legion itself. He was raised in Flagstaff, the capital of the Legion. And as such, enamored by the hyper glorified propaganda of the Legion's exploits. He was conscripted as a boy, not yet even ten years old, though he felt good about it. He would be serving mighty Caesar after all.

He was given training, meagre as it was. And was largely relegated to peacekeeping forces that roamed Arizona and the rest of the Legion's territory. That was his way of life for much of his life, not seeing much of any, if at all, combat thanks to the Legions internal stability. That was of course until he was forced into the role of Courier, and sent to walk the west as a spy for the Legion.

He had never seen the Legions purported cruelty first hand, dismissing most stories as falsifications of jealous and blind enemies. But Nipton opened his eyes and taught him lessons he wouldn't soon forget.

The Drifter – The Courier – might have overlooked these raiders had they had some semblance of humanity. But such was obviously not the case. More women were being extracted from the crowd, as a large man made himself known to the crowd from the balcony of the only two story building in the town. He began speaking, but the Courier wasn't listening.

The Courier pulled _All American _off of his back and quickly shook it, trusting the gun to fire despite the copious amount of sand falling out of it. He took seven steps down an alley and began setting up shots on the raiders. He wasn't too concerned with hitting the townsfolk, so he didn't bother being overly cautious.

Six rapid shots and the two men violating the first woman in the street fell over dead. Everyone stopped what they were doing, shock coating the crowd as well as the raiders. In that time, the Courier sighted another raider. Three more shots and the man fell over like his comrades in the street; the Courier took off into the maze of alleys and side streets in a sprint, hoping to reposition himself without being spotted.

From the sounds of it, the crowd was dispersing in a panic. Screams were filling the air and shouts of angered raiders were drowned out by the fear gripping the mob.

"Where did those shots come from?!"

"I don't know!"

"Johnny?! Where are you?"

"Mama!"

"Where are you motherfucker I'll gut you like a pig!"

Everything was drowned out as the Courier focused on watching for the Raiders. Some turned down the alley he was just firing from, wielding nasty looking blades and screaming wildly. Meanwhile, The Courier exited the alleys and ran back towards the crowd, using it as living cover since the raiders hadn't begun cutting the mod down. Yet.

In the midst of the crowd, now spread out over the entire town square as opposed to being compressed into one section of the open space, the violated woman was viciously stabbing another raider in the throat repeatedly. Viscously mangling the man's neck until his head simply fell off. Paying no mind to her almost entire indecency, she stood up with a feral look in her eye as she scanned the crowd, much like the Courier.

The Courier, having reached cover that wasn't another living being, popped out and began firing at the raiders who chased him into the alleys. Three fell immediately, the indiscriminate hailstorm of led catching the lead man in the chest, penetrating him and colliding with the woman behind him, he fell, and the trend repeated until the third raider fell and the _All American _went click.

A lightning fast quick draw on _That Gun, _sitting on his left hip,as well as some well-placed shots, downed the remaining four raiders in the alleyway. While The Couriers attention was focused on the alley, he was struck in the side with the power of a Deathclaw. Making him drop _All American_.

A wicked looking mace struck against his Elite Riot Armor. Sending the not inconsiderably sized Courier hurtling through the air only for him to collide with a scrap wall in a heap. He groaned, barely forcing himself up and back into the fight. A quick glance back where he came from indicated he was being pursued by a very upset Raider, specifically the Raider who had been supposedly leading the group of rapists, seeing as he was the one who was speaking to the crowd prior to the Couriers intervention.

The Leader was not a small man by any means, but then, neither was the Courier. As the Leader charged the Courier, the Courier drew _Big Boomer _from his right hip, waited until the Leader was about to swing and then blasted him twice, sending the Leader careening backwards.

Satisfied that he had killed the man, the Courier searched for a stimpack amongst his many pockets. Only interrupted by the Leader getting back up, looking no worse for were, and a strange field crackling around him.

The Courier would have been surprised at the man's resilience, or his supposed supernatural powers. But he had faced down Legate Lanius and won, and no one compared to the Monster of the East.

Calmly reloading, The Courier fired again as he began to backpedal, one shot missing and scattering into a building behind the Leader. The other, colliding with the Leaders forehead. By all rights, the man's face should have at least been unrecognisable. However the feral look in the man's eye and the lack of even a bruise on him made the Courier a little angry.

"You've gotta' be fucking kidding me." The Courier said, muttering to himself as he turned and sprinted the opposite direction. Narrowly avoiding the swinging mace. "Fucking radiation, one time you give someone supernatural bullshit and you give it to some asshole with a club. Real nice."

He wasn't about to go hand to hand against a man who could take a shotgun blast to the face, and while the Leader was obviously no Legate Lanius, he seemed to have the same resilience.

A quick glance behind him showed the Leader in hot pursuit, seemingly gaining on the Courier. Until, the feral and naked woman from the street, comically collided with the Leader, bringing down the much larger man to the dirt. She began hacking away at him, using her rusted knife to try and break through that strange force field around the Raider.

The Courier, having now identified the biggest threat, holstered the _Big Boomer _and retrieved the _Medicine Stick _from the other holster on his back. He took careful aim while the woman hacked away, kneeling for better stability until finally, the Leader seemed to have had enough and bodily threw the woman away and off of him.

A mistake, one the Leader would quite literally not get up from. The Courier fired the full eight shots of the _Medicine Stick, _each bullet colliding with the man's right knee, the sixth shot finally penetrating whatever barrier the raider had, blowing apart the knee. The last two shots were sent into the left knee the second blood could be seen in the right.

Everything seemed to stop at that moment. As the lead Raider wailed in pain in the dirt, everyone seemed to turn to look at the Courier. The remaining Raiders dropping their weapons in fear of the man who had taken down their boss.

Not questioning his good fortune, the Courier quickly bound the lead Raiders arms together, and after that, cautiously made his way to the other remaining six Raiders, doing the same to them. He wasn't about to kill these people after they had surrendered, but he wasn't going to make the mistake in letting them go.

The townsfolk watched in cautious awe, surprised to see that the town wasn't burned down or destroyed by the vehicles outside the walls. A young man, no older than fourteen, clutched _All American _in his dirty hands, cautiously approaching the Courier before holding out the weapon to him.

The Courier, glanced down at the boy and accepted his rifle with an appreciative nod. He reloaded his weaponry, and holstered each gun. Before finally turning his full attention to the townsfolk.

The woman from the street, still have naked, was barely restraining herself from attacking the Raiders, instead waiting like the rest of the townsfolk to see what the Courier would do.

He looked at her, then down at the still moaning lead Raider, and backed away slowly. Effectively giving his permission for her to do what she wished. She leapt on the man, repeatedly stabbing him as the town watched. It took the Raider two minutes to die.

Cautiously, the Courier moved the remaining six Raiders to the center of the town square. The crowd parted for him, many looking a mix between ashamed and angry. They weren't angry at the Courier, however. Instead upset with themselves.

"Who leads this town?" The Courier spoke, and while he didn't raise his voice, everyone heard him.

The crowd looked to the man the Courier had first seen. The man who stood by while a woman was raped. A man who had enough people to easily overwhelm the Raiders. A coward.

The Courier didn't show any emotion, an effort only helped by his gasmask. But inside he was cooking up a righteous fury. Vulpes Inculta's words echoed in his mind once again, the soft voiced bastard whispering in his ear that this kind of moral degeneracy and cowardice should be punished.

"Name." Was all the Courier said.

"Ray Richter." The man said, his voice thin and reedy. He seemed to quake in his one size too small boots as he stood in front of the Courier.

The Courier, pointedly turned his head to the woman still hysterically mangling the corpse of the Leader, before turning his gaze back on Richter. "You let this happen, this is as much your fault as it is these degenerates." The Courier said, kicking one of the Raiders unapologetically.

Richter opened his mouth to reply, to try and defend himself. But no words came out, no matter how hard he tried he couldn't form the right words to make this seem better than it was.

"How long has this been happening?" The Courier asked, his voice deadly quiet.

"W-we were forced! They-" Richter tried to get out.

"How long, have you been letting this happen?" The Courier interrupted calmly. The surrounding townsfolk were backing away now, shooting steadily angrier glares at Richter.

"T-t-two years. T-they came once a month." Richter said, in a tiny voice. He looked down at the ground like a scolded child, only to meet the eyes of a dead body.

The faces of the crowd showed the Courier that Richter was telling the truth. Each one of them looking ashamed and frustrated.

"Why didn't you fight back?" The Courier asked, trying to salvage some kind of respect for the townsfolk.

"We are a peaceful town! Cassandra was supposed to protect us!" Richter finally worked up enough backbone to return the anger the Courier was feeling, as he gestured to the woman just now getting up and off of the body of the lead Raider, bloodied and looking devastated.

She looked to be in shock, not surprisingly. Halfway between sobbing uncontrollably and screaming angrily.

"And why couldn't you protect yourselves?" The Courier asked, hand drifting unconsciously towards _That Gun _on his hip.

"As I said! We are a peaceful town! We didn't come out here to fight. And I refuse to participate in fighting! I'm a pacifist! I-" Richter was cut off by a gunshot that sent him tumbling to the ground, wailing in pain not unlike the Raider that had tormented the town so much. The crowd jumped, clutching each other in fear of the new man, though some were more than in agreement with him.

"And look where that got you. Your so called protector violated while you watched and did nothing." He paused, realising he was pacing back and forth. He glanced over the crowd, not paying the blubbering Richter any mind until his eyes landed on a particularly large man looking disapprovingly at the injured pacifist.

"You, go get something that can help this woman cover up." The Courier said, gesturing to the large man and then to the woman.

The man nodded, and briskly walked into a nearby building. Returning with a blanket, which he gingerly wrapped around the shoulders of the woman.

Turning his attention back to the captured Raiders, each now scared out of their minds, looking for a way to escape. He glanced back towards the crowd, before speaking again. "Who have these Raiders wronged?" A few hands slowly raised in the crowd, at least one for each Raider.

The Courier gestured for them to come forward, drawing _Chances Knife _from its place on his shoulder. "You are each going to take this knife and determine for me what happens with these Raiders. Whether they live or die is up to you. They have done me no personal harm, so I can't pass judgment for you." He finished, flipping the knife so that he was holding the blade, allowing one of the townsfolk to take the hilt.

No one moved for almost a minute. The Raiders squirmed in anticipation and the townsfolk looked at one another, wondering who would go first. Finally, the fourteen year old who had given the Courier _All American _stepped forward and grabbed the knife. Walking right up to the largest Raider in the group, who smiled cruelly down at him.

"You aint' gonna' do nothin' with that kid, so let's just save everyone some time and you can cut me lose." He said, his teeth a rotten mess that made everyone curl their nose.

"You hurt my mom." The kid said simply, before driving the knife through the man's heart in a forceful jab. The dying Raider just looked shocked, before he fell over.

The Courier retrieved the now bloodied knife and repeated the process with four others, until at last, there was only one Raider left. Five others had been killed, none set free. The last person to take the knife was a poor looking woman, though she held her head up high as she gazed down at the Raider.

The Raider, for her part, began blubbering apologies to the woman, not that they seemed to be heard.

The poor woman took the knife and in one swift motion cut the ropes binding the Raider. "Do better Sister, Mama wouldn't have wanted this for us."

Obviously full of emotion, the Raider fled without a word. While the Courier was critical of the woman's mercy, he didn't say anything as the last remaining Raider left to hopefully change their life. He retrieved his knife and wiped off the copious amount of blood with a dirty rag, before sheathing it back on his shoulder.

Silence reigned over the town, until finally someone asked the question on everyone's mind.

"What now?"

Everyone looked to the Courier, who was wondering the same thing. He was no stranger to helping out towns, but he intended to move on quickly. Thankfully, or perhaps, unfortunately, he never had to answer the question.

A flying machine made its presence known as it crested the dunes in the distance, loudly denying gravity its due. It sped towards the town, whipping up the wind and with it the dust and dirt. A door opened in its side, much like a Vertibird, and it produced a pair of well-armed folks. One man, and one woman. They both pointed weapons at the Courier, though he couldn't discern what kind of weapons they were.

He didn't raise his hands.

He watched as their eyes widened at the sight of the dead bodies and bloodied villagers. Saw as their gaze flitted over to the openly sobbing woman, being comforted by the large man who brought her a blanket.

One of the pair, the woman, screeched out "Cass!" Before disregarding the Courier and sprinting over to her friend.

The name made the Couriers heart twinge.

The remaining man looked distraught at his friends, but kept his weapon trained on the Courier. "You! What happened here?!" He barked out.

The Courier, looked down at the dead bodies, absently nudging one's arm with his cowboy boot as he spoke. "Raiders. Caught em' having their way with your friend, so I stepped in." The Courier paused, glancing towards the townsfolk. "Had them pass judgment on the few who surrendered."

The other man's face was a mix of anger and confusion. However, before he could ask anything else, great a black and white maw emerged from the ground beneath the flying machine, swallowing it whole all the while spewing forth similar black and white beasts.

Familiar screams filled the air, seeming to only insight the beasts to fight harder. The Courier of course, leapt into action. Running in the opposite direction as the sudden threat. Once he was confident he was clear of any immediate threat, he turned and began unloading his weapons on the veritable horde currently massacring the town.

Despite his efforts, he hardly put a dent in the number of beasts. He watched as each person he just saved was mangled and chewed and slashed beyond recognition. The folks from the flying machine were the first to go, surprised and unable to react in time before they were swarmed.

The woman, Cassandra, merely looked on, defeated. All fight having left her. The Courier didn't see what happened to her.

Richter fell into the maw.

The kid who gave him back his rifle was impaled on a tusk, still stuck on it as the beast rampaged throughout the town.

The town began to look more and more like Nipton. Men and women impaled on debris, fires raged from broken lanterns and at the middle of it all, the damnable beasts responsible for it.

So the Courier ran. He didn't look back. He ducked and dived snapping jaws and slashing claws in an eerily familiar set of actions. He made it into the desert once again, the vehicles ringing the town having been destroyed, presumably by the beasts currently chasing the Courier.

He ran at full tilt through a vast expanse of desert, stumbling over unseen rocks, cursing the lack of cover a sandstorm could have provided for him.

He spun in a familiar motion, drawing his peculiar revolver and fired, still back peddling all the while. The shots rang out across the expanse, hardly drowned out by the swarm of easily seen beasts chasing him. Their dogged persistence making their presence known not through exhaustion, but physical injury. A slash drags itself across his armor, gouging it.

Three more shots and his assailant falls dead. Only for more to take its place. Another slash cuts through the black spade and gold _21, _making the Courier fall to the ground, too slow to grip his sawed off shotgun as he was pounced on by a wolf beast.

Before it could bite him, he pulled _Chances Knife _out of its sheath and stabbed the beast repeatedly in the neck. Shoving it off of him and rolling to his feet. Limping, thanks to a twisted ankle. His fear makes it hard to breathe, he coughs, before he is finally swarmed by the beasts and everything goes black.

**Alright everyone, It's me again.**

**So this is just a little something I've been cooking up, and there is no guarantee it will go any further than this. **

**Really, this is a way for me to address some complaints I've got with both Fallout and RWBY. Should this go any further, it will be brutal. The world of Remnant to me should have been brutal, so, seeing as this is going to be a crossover with Fallout, now is the best time to portray what I think the world should look like if we go off its tagline. A world of bloody evolution.**

**Review if you'd like this to go further, as reviews are surprisingly motivating.**

**And if anyone cares, my other two stories aren't abandoned, just need to get back in the headspace to write them.**


	2. Back in the Saddle

"_You're awake. How bout' that." _The doc said kindly.

"_Whoa, easy there. Easy. You been out cold a couple of days now. Why don't you just, relax a second? Get your bearings." _Doc said, before sighing. _"Let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"_

The Courier shook his head, trying to clear a thin veneer of fuzz from his thoughts. Ended up being a horrible decision, as the sudden movement brought on a splitting headache, making him wince.

He grunted with pain, barely biting out _"Jericho. I-I can only remember Jericho."_

"_Huh. Can't say it's what I'd have picked for you. But if that's your name, that's your name." _The Doc said, still kind even though he was obviously a little worried.

"_I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."_

"Wake up."

The Courier jolted, eyes snapping open at the voice, though no one became immediately apparent. It was dark, but light was present. The room was lit by torches and lanterns, bouncing off of black stone and red windows giving off a strange contrast.

The bed he lay on was comfortable. The most comfortable thing he had ever touched. It accommodated his size and weight without creaking, and he hated it. It wasn't normal.

He glanced around, vaguely catching the sight of _something _circling the bed, always at the edge of his vision. He squinted, absently rubbing his eyes free of whatever nightmare he had just had, or was having.

He paused. He was unbound? Maybe this person wasn't going to kill him, hell maybe they had even saved his life.

Slowly, the Courier – Jericho – raised himself up into a sitting position on the bed. His head was on a swivel, though the being that immediately grabbed his attention was the deathly pale woman with unhealthy looking black lines crawling up her features standing at the end of the bed.

The woman smirked, a sultry look that seemed to come all too easily to her. With a start, Jericho realised he was stripped down to nothing but his underwear and an undershirt. It was an uncomfortably familiar situation the he had no wish to repeat, despite how it was not forced on him yet again.

Neither seemed to want to begin the conversation, only when the white woman's smirk dropped did she begin to speak.

"You aren't from here. Though I'm not sure you know that." She said, her hauntingly attractive features keeping the young man on the bed transfixed despite his best efforts. There was obviously something _wrong _with the situation, but his thoughts felt fuzzy. A familiar and panic inducing feeling which kept him focused on _her._

"What do you mean?" The Courier asked, trying to peel his eyes away from the black and red counterparts in the white woman.

The smirk returned, and the last vestiges of sleep left Jericho. "Come find me when you are able, you were in quite the scuffle." She said almost haughtily, as if she knew more than she was letting on.

Which she did.

With that, she left. She practically glided across the floor, he dress never seeming to move as she walked. A hitherto unseen dark brown door opened and closed with a slam, shaking the frame and the room with its weight.

Jericho stayed still for a moment, before getting off the bed and collapsing to the floor. His left leg was bandaged and set with a makeshift splint. He was no stranger to crippled limbs, and so just clenched his teeth and stood up, trying to keep the pressure off his injured leg.

The room was appointed as one would expect from a guest room, though obviously luxurious. A dresser, with colours in keeping with the theme of the room, had a perfectly clear mirror attached to its top. The Courier's array of weaponry was laid out neatly on top of the dresser, with both _All American _and the _Medicine Stick _along with _Old Glory _resting opposite one another, making a box for the rest of his smaller arms.

_Maria, Big Boomer, Love and Hate, Chances Knife, That Gun, _and _A_ _Light Shining in Darkness _all ringed his folded _Elite Riot Armor _with its attached _Courier Duster. _The _Elite Riot Helmet _repaired and resting atop the bullet resistant fabric.

A sense of elation rose from the Couriers chest, before he lumbered over to the dresser. He hadn't meant to look at himself in the mirror, but once he had reached his gear his eyes were inevitably drawn to the nineteen year old face staring back at him.

He couldn't remember the last time he had really looked at himself, but he didn't remember looking like that. He looked older than he was, his messy black hair was cut short, and his rough beard made him look far more weathered than he was. His normally sun tanned skin was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot.

More than that, he was gaunt. His cheeks were drawn in and his eyes were hollow and ringed with tiredness. A short lifetime of soldiering, survival and questionable decisions stared back at him. Voices echoed in his ears, men and women often exclaiming what would end up being their finals words to him.

"_Why have you… done this? Centuries of preparation… so much good, undone…"_

"_I'm gonna' make you my bitch!"_

"_Your words have done nothing but delay the inevitable. Now, see what my hounds and my blade will bring to you."_

"_I would sooner spit on the grave of my dead mother than let some courier-walk-the-wasteland-fuck talk to me like that."_

"_Help!"_

"_You son of a bitch!"_

"_You think you've outsmarted me?! You can't get away! You're the one on a leash. You always were."_

They were infuriating. With a sneer Jericho tore his eyes away from the mirror and angrily began collecting his gear. Everything was in order, even being in better condition than when he had last used them. The cut through the golden _21 _was mended and the holes in the riot armor were repaired.

First came the tan jeans and armored combat boots which took a few moments to adjust thanks to the numerous laces, followed by the actual armored chest plate. Several straps and belts wrapped around the armor, carrying items ranging from bullets to his now suddenly full canteen. The reinforced duster came next. The coat being adapted from the original armored piece and the first and only gift anyone had ever given him. The blackjack Courier duster replaced the other jacket after the Courier himself transferred the extra armor on the shoulders and the sleeves themselves onto his personal duster. And finally, completing the intimidating ensemble, was the helmet, which he decided to hold instead of wear at the moment.

He took a sip from his trusty vault _13 _canteen, relishing in the cold water as he glared at the door, trying to will the answer to his problems to walk through. He took a step, forgetting his injured leg for a moment, and once again stumbled. With a growl, he fished out a stimpack from one of the pouches on his chest, and jabbed it into the offending limb. A few seconds later, and he was fully mobile.

He began marching across the room, intending to face his problem sooner rather than later, his boots landing in a satisfyingly deep rhythm. He was confident he wouldn't need his weapons, but kept them easily accessible just in case.

The building was a veritable castle, the black stone and torchlight giving off the ambience of suppressed rage. There always seemed to be something flitting about at the corner of his vision, keeping him paranoid and on guard. When he finally found windows, they were stained red and were semi-frosted, making it difficult to make out any details from the outside.

The Courier growled in frustration, but otherwise didn't alter his stride. He didn't know where he was going, but that had never stopped his exploration before. If the white woman didn't appear to him soon he was more than likely to start looting. It was lucky then, when he stumbled on an open door to a balcony, which the white woman was waiting on.

She didn't turn around, merely gesturing him to join her outside. He obliged, seeing no reason to refuse, and stepped up next to her, placing his anxious hands on the white balcony railing. The horizon was blood red, and the ground was a black sand one would expect from a rocket blast. _Things _meandered around aimlessly, seemingly nonplussed by the giant structure Jericho stood in.

"Am I dead?" The Courier asked, not fearfully, instead with resignation.

The woman had the gall to laugh slightly. "No, I'm afraid not." She paused for a moment, letting the Courier absorb the information. "You are however not where you should be. I don't know how it is you came here, but you are from another world separate from ours." She said, with what was obviously unused wonder.

The Courier, simply scoffed. How could that be possible? Not even the Think Tank could achieve that, and he had asked! The white woman for her part, just gestured towards the sky.

Reluctantly Jericho looked up, and sighed. The moon was broken. He looked back down, hurriedly averting his gaze from the stellar phenomena he didn't want to believe. Though he already knew. A pit in his stomach opened up, wider than The Divide. He wasn't going back home, and he had fucked everything up.

The Desert would fall apart without him, and he was never going to be able to fix his mistakes. He wouldn't even try, because he didn't know where to start.

Another sigh, and he pushed those feelings down where he pushed all of his guilt and fear and anger. "Who are you then?" He said in frustration.

"Salem. I saved you when you were under attack by the Grimm." She gestured towards the various abominations milling about below the castle.

"Why?" Jericho said, in frustration.

Salem gave an almost motherly smile, one which made the Courier's eyes water with unexpected emotion. "I thought you deserved to be saved."

The Courier tensed, not expecting that answer. He certainly didn't feel the same considering he had abandoned the Mojave, despite however involuntary that action was. Hell no one had ever thought that of him. No one. He was always a tool or a means to an end.

Salem continued, either not noticing the Courier's sudden tension or disregarding it for the moment. "I don't think you deserved to die, so I saved you. I couldn't save the town, despite my efforts, but you had survived, somehow. So I brought you here. I the only reason I knew you were from another world was your strange armor and your collection of notes." She finished, answering the most obvious question before it needed to asked.

Jericho was beginning to relax. But there was that niggling feeling of paranoia he often ignored that told him she was say _exactly _the right things to make him relax. "Thank you, then." He said in what sounded to him like a tiny, weak voice.

The motherly smile returned, a far cry from the look she gave him when he had first woken up. She nodded wordlessly, accepting his thanks.

"What now?" Jericho asked, vaguely aware of how pathetic he sounded. Something was keeping him focused on Salem, something he couldn't understand. All he knew, was that he wanted to pay her back. Though, that same niggling paranoia practically screamed at him that he had felt this way for someone else before, and House had ended up with buckshot through his shrivelled up carcass.

But that was a long time ago, certainly things could be different this time.

Right?

Jericho cleared his throat and looked down at his gloved hands. "I owe you, whatever you need me to do, I'll do it." He said, wholly meaning it. If he said he would do something, he did it.

Salem didn't give any outward reaction to his words beyond an almost pitying smile and a light shake of her head. "For now you should focus on getting adjusted to this place and the world. After that… we'll see."

The Courier nodded, and Salem lead him on a tour of her castle all the while explaining to him the basics of the world he now found himself in. Dust, Aura, Semblance, Grimm and the Kingdoms were outlined neatly in brief overviews. Giving enough information to understand the basics of the concept, and places to start off in research.

Much of the technology wasn't unfamiliar to the Courier, in fact he felt he could adapt pretty well to the supposed conveniences that were available in the world of Remnant. He practically threw himself into absorbing everything he could of practical tech and other related fields, using the castles _vast _library as an effective distraction from his current situation.

The advances in computers, while fascinating, went over his head. He was always more mechanically inclined, a necessity when maintaining some of the gear he had used over the years. He had even toyed with the idea of repairing a vehicle to make his job easier and faster, but despite quickly grasping the concepts, never got around to getting the right parts together.

Despite the odd feeling of safety that Salem seemed to evoke in him, the castle itself was ominous and foreboding. The black stone and red windows kept the Courier constantly looking over his shoulder for things creeping around in the shadows of the hall and rooms.

He was sat at a table, having spent several hours reading different historical texts when that sixth sense that had kept him alive for so long started itching at the back of his neck. Carefully, Jericho slid his right hand across his chest, while holding his book with his left so as to not look suspicious. His hand gently rested against the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, on the grip of the intricately styled silver handgun _Maria._

Several moments passed and nothing happened. It took a full minute for the Courier to think that _maybe _he was just imagining things and just _barely _move his hand from his gun. In that instant, he was struck in the side with a painfully familiar sting.

He was moving and shooting in an instant, aiming low to try and hit the perceived rad scorpion that had chittered up beside him. Problem was it wasn't a rad scorpion, it was a man with an eerily familiar look on his face. Jericho didn't take much notice of that in moment however, instead barely registering the swaying scorpion tail as the man cartwheeled around the room like a maniac.

The Courier loosed more shots, emptying the clip of _Maria, _reloading before drawing _Big Boomer _which he kept at his side should the man get too close. He ignored the painful throbbing of the wound in his side, which seemed to have punctured clean through his armor. He too ignored the painful spreading of an all too familiar feeling of poison in his veins. He was stung enough by Scorpions, Snakes, Spiders, or even Cazadores that he figured he should be good without Anti-venom for a good long while.

The man seemed to want to start monologuing, but the Courier gave him no chance. The Scorpion man had leapt up on top of a bookshelf and took a position as if he was without a care in the world. He opened his too wide mouth to speak while the Courier was reloading, only to receive several bullets straight to the teeth.

His head didn't explode into bloody bits, much to the Courier's chagrin. Instead the bullets bounced and pinged away, much like they had with the lead Raider in the village. His head did snap back in surprise however, not used to being caught off guard. With a growl and a yelp, the man leapt towards Jericho, extending two wrist blades on each arm.

It was good then, that the Courier had his trusty shotgun on hand.

At the last second before the scorpion man came into contact with him, he blasted both barrels at the man. No matter what country you're from, or what magical voodoo bullshit powers you might possess, you can't fight physics.

Because the bullets have nowhere to go but forward, they try to penetrate the man's strange forcefield, or his so called 'aura.' But they can't. So their kinetic energy must be transferred to something. The scorpion man went hurtling backwards, knocking over a series of bookshelves as the Courier calmly reloaded his shotgun, and took the opportunity to pull a small flask from one of his chest pouches and down its viscous contents. Immediately, he could feel the poison in his body begin to thin and dissipate.

The scorpion man, evidently not satisfied with his own performance, leapt forward once again, only to meet the same fate he had just recovered from.

The Courier was beginning to enjoy this.

Another reload, and his sudden levity dropped back down to the ground. He was out of extra shells after these next two shots, so he had to make them count to keep the man away. He needed a way to incapacitate him quickly, but he seemed nowhere near slowing down. It was almost like fighting a Deathclaw except it had poisoned claws.

He resumed the steady fire of _Maria, _hoping that it would keep him at bay until he could figure out a plan. The scorpion man, was presumably doing the same thing, considering he was keeping his distance, merely evading the Courier's fire.

It was times like these that Jericho bemoaned his lack of explosive preparation. Always forgetting at the last second that he has them at all. He could have avoided much of his injuries if he just took time to plan and prepare.

He had been standing still, hardly strafing as he was under the impression that the Scorpion only had melee capabilities. That impression was rudely changed when, in an errant flip, his wrist blades began shooting at him.

Fuck this place and their useful as all hell 'mechashift weapons.'

The first two shots landed right in the knee of his still tender left leg, dropping him to the floor with a cry of pain. More shots rang out, and the Courier half crawled half limped his way over to a large dark brown wood table that went down the middle of the library, heaving with all his strength to tip the immense mass of wood.

With a crash, the table tilted onto its side. He sidled up to keep his back to the table, holstering _Maria _so that he could inject another stimpack into his leg. The scorpion took advantage, vaulting over the table to land right over top of the Courier, who just fired _Big Boomer _for the last time, sending him careening into another bookshelf with a cry of frustration.

With a start, the Courier realised he couldn't fight him here. He needed to get to a place where he could dictate the rules. Intending to emulate what he had done in the past with feral ghouls, the Courier vaulted over the makeshift cover of the table and sprinted towards the door and out into one of the labyrinthian halls.

He beat feat until he was out on the balcony he had originally met Salem on, where he stopped and frantically looked around for anything he could use that he didn't already have. With a panicked "Motherfucker!" he found nothing beyond a few end tables.

So he stood, having cornered himself in a dangerous area and hoped he could improvise a way out of this. Soon enough, the scorpion man game sprinting fast towards him, having found the object of his hunt.

He was thankfully, coming down a straight hallway that provided little cover. That didn't seem to help much however when the man started bouncing off the walls in order to avoid getting shot by the hailstorm of lead coming down at him from the Couriers considerable arsenal.

It was hard to tell what hit, and what didn't. All that Jericho knew, was that the scorpion man didn't even slow down. There was a maniacal grin on his face that matched his incessant cackling, and then finally it clicked in the Courier's head, just as he was about to be pounced on yet again. That look in his eye, looked exactly like Cook-Cook. Assuming that is, if that murderous son of a bitch ever looked sober.

Finally out of options, the Courier ripped the cloth holding _Old Glory _in place inside his duster and swung the mostly ornamental weapon at the lunging bug man. He struck, but that didn't stop his momentum. Finally, the Courier knew he was beat. He waited for the final blow to come, not having enough time for any regrets at the moment, but the strike never came.

With a start, he realised he had closed his eyes. He opened them curiously, only to find himself uncomfortably close to the scorpion man. He could feel and smell his breath as he was held down. The man merely looked at him _hungrily, _with wide eyes and a sickening smile.

He had forgotten his helmet in the library, and he regretted that mistake.

"Welcome-" the scorpion began, cackling all the while. The Courier ignored whatever came next, instead trying to figure out how to get the crazy man off of him. His legs weren't held down, as his chest was being straddled as the bug man held down his arms. Try as he might, he simply wasn't as strong as the man creepily gesticulating with equally creepy expressions.

So, out of options, the Courier just grimaced and head-butted him right in the chin. The bug man's head snapped back, and while the actual strike may have hurt the Courier more considering he was now bleeding from the nose, from the impotent growling and the spray of pink mist that came out of the bugs mouth probably indicated that he had bitten his tongue.

_That _was satisfying.

And it provided the perfect distraction for him to wriggle free, as the scorpion man's hands flew up to his mouth. With a twist, the Courier was now on top. Wrapping his legs around the Scorpions own while reaching for _Chances Knife. _He began bringing it down repeatedly, but the damn shield around him just wouldn't break.

The Courier stopped, suddenly feeling an appraising gaze on his back. That momentary distraction was all it took for the bug to reverse their position once again, this time however he effectively pinned Jericho down in an arm bar.

The threat of having his arm broken in such a way that stimpacks couldn't fix easily, stilled the Courier. Once again subject to the bug's creepy mannerisms.

"Oh, I like him! He'll be fun…" the bug spluttered through the blood in his mouth, still laughing all the while.

"That's enough Tyrian. You can go now." Salem spoke from the doorway, a pleased tone in her voice that made the so called Tyrian shudder with unrestrained glee.

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you again real soon!" The bug said, drawing out his words in almost orgasmic bliss, before finally releasing Jericho.

The Courier just spat in his face.

Tyrian screamed, finally angry. But a quick word from Salem had him slinking off down the hall, looking back over at the Courier with an evil glint in his eye. The Courier got up off the ground, and began angrily collecting his weapons.

"What was that?" Jericho said angrily, not making eye contact with the woman who had supposedly saved his life.

"Tyrian is an… agent, of mine. I was unaware he had returned. He must have assumed you were an intruder, and so set out to incapacitate you." She said, kindly. That same feeling of maternal care returned to the Courier, relaxing him and making him not notice the true meaning to her words.

"There is something good that came of this however. It is now clear to me that you can handle yourself in this world, so I've made the decision to send you the Vale." Salem said, her tone becoming more businesslike.

The Courier, knowing that the time for anger had passed, was more than willing to get to work on a job he could focus on. Something that would distract him from thoughts of his own world and the Mojave. So he nodded, and turned to face Salem fully while he absently reloaded and fixed his guns. A skill he had picked up from the Burned Man.

"What do you need me to do?" He asked.

"Nothing. For now anyways, I just want you to get used to the world. You'll be meeting up with another one of my contacts, who will help you get situated in Vale." Salem said, pleased with the Courier's quick compliance.

"Who is this person and how will you contact me?" Jericho said, glaring angrily at the numerous wastefully expended magazines that arrayed his chest and the insides of his duster.

"She is called Cinder Fall, and I will contact you through her. So I suggest you listen to her, as she will be helping you 'adjust.'" Salem replied matter of factly. "For tonight however, you may rest here. I'll have you brought to Vale tomorrow."

The Courier nodded, finding himself without any more questions. And a good rest did sound particularly enticing to him. Salem left without another word, signalling that the conversation was over.

The Courier needed to restock on ammo, but was unfortunately unwilling to ask for any more favors from his host. So he relegated himself to waiting until he was at the so called city of Vale. Once he had returned to his room however, that didn't stop him from making it as secure as possible.

The Castle unnerved him, and the Grimm roaming the outside made that feeling even worse. But worst of all was the knowledge that Tyrian was in the same building as him. Just the thought made his skin crawl. He hated the feeling of helplessness that Tyrian had induced in him; that knowledge that no matter what Jericho did, he couldn't bring the bug down. He had unloaded his entire arsenal into the jumped up scorpion and it hardly slowed him down, and that evoked memories he would rather not remember.

He _HATED _it.

So, the room became a fortress. The dresser that previous held his gear was pushed in front of the heavy door, and with some extreme jury rigging, contained enough explosives to make it one hell of a frag grenade, should someone enter the room unannounced thanks to a wire setup that was connected to the floor should the dresser move.

Next came the guns, which were setup around the room and well hidden from sight. The hope was to get some lucky shots of to kill anyone coming in the room.

Never once did the thought that he was maybe going a little overboard cross his mind as he tipped the rest of the furniture in the room into a cover square that he could shoot out of. Not when he gripped _Chances Knife _in his left hand, and _A Light Shining in Darkness _in the other. And not when he lay down with his helmet and armor on in the middle of the square, on the floor and facing the only way in or out of the room.

**Alright everyone, it's me again.**

**So, before anyone starts saying that Salem is out of character, I've got some explanation for that, which I have tried to subtly introduce throughout the chapter.**

**When I had said that this would be brutal, I just want people to know I don't mean unnecessarily brutal. Just more violent than the show makes itself out to be. The Courier will not be some overpowered killing machine, because as cool as he is, he doesn't have the powers of Anime bullshit *YET,* he is effectively the peak of a regular man, who has then been pushed to the limit to survive. So for now, essentially everyone could kick his ass. Maybe not Jaune, but most could kick his ass.**

**And Tyrian would utterly destroy him if he was actually fighting.**

**And there is no relation to Jericho in Fallout 3, in case you were wondering. I just liked the name.**

**So yeah, this will hopefully be a more realistic and more mature story than what you would normally get out of RWBY or Fallout.**

**As for the reviews, thanks gang, ya'll rock.**

**So Bullets in Fallout may very well be more powerful than those in RWBY, but for the purposes of this story, the opposite will be true. RWBY will have the more powerful stuff, simply by virtue of Dust.**


	3. By a Campfire on the Trail

"_Cheyenne stay! Don't worry, she won't bite unless I tell her too."_

With an anguished cry, the Courier woke up. Jolting himself into awareness as he frantically surveyed the strange room he was in. Only when his breathing calmed, did he begin to remember where he was. He groaned, shoving the frantic adrenaline fuelled guilt back where it belonged while sitting down and removing his helmet.

He wiped sweat off his brow, and took a deep breath.

Sunny Smiles was dead, curled up and sobbing with a shot to hell Cheyenne before she went into bits thanks to powder ganger dynamite.

There weren't any Powder Gangers left in the Mojave by the time the Courier left for the strip.

It was Sunny who had really brought him back to life. He had spent weeks with Doc Mitchell moping about Goodsprings until Sunny finally had enough of his bullshit and kicked his ass into gear. She was his first real _friend._ And she went and died. And he knew, that somehow he could have done something to change that. He didn't know how, no matter how many times he reran the Powder Ganger attack in his head, he couldn't find a way to change the outcome. But he _knew _there must have been a way to save her.

She showed him that people could be good, in the wasteland. And that life wasn't all about idealistic moral quandaries. Sometimes things could be just _simple._

Another deep breath, a quiet and choked sob, and Jericho was up and ready for the day.

He couldn't make those same mistakes again. He wouldn't. Too many people had left him because of his own hubris for him to allow himself to do the same damn things.

He distracted himself by counting the remaining ammunition he had for his guns, and after finding he had a pitiful supply left, he cleaned them. Anything to keep his mind off of the Mojave.

A soft knocking at the door was uncharacteristically welcome. The menial cleaning of his guns providing hardly any distraction considering he could clean and repair them with his hands tied behind his back. Literally.

He moved over to the still explosive dresser and cautiously made sure not to move it as he asked loudly, "Who is it?"

"Salem." Was the simple reply.

With a sigh, the Courier began disarming the dresser bomb before moving it out of the way of the door. He opened it for his saviour and stepped back. Salem glided in, hands clasped in front of her. Jericho kept his eyes on the hallway until she was fully in the room, making sure no one else was going to try and come in.

He relaxed when he saw the coast was clear, and turned his gaze to peer into the patient look Salem was giving him. "Yeah?" He said, voice raw with poorly disguised emotion.

"Today is the day you will be leaving for Vale, Cinder will be here in an hour. I just wanted to make sure you were alright." Salem said, some of the words seeming a little strange coming from the white woman, though Jericho dismissed the thought.

"I'm alright." Jericho said with a breath. "Just a lot to take in at night." He continued honestly.

"Mmm…" Salem muttered noncommittally, before she turned her gaze to the makeshift bunker he had made in the middle of the room. "Was the bed not comfortable?" She asked, a little annoyance tinging her words.

"No, it was comfortable. _Too _comfortable." He muttered, not wishing to anger his hostess.

Salem simply gave him an indecipherable look, before nodding at him. They didn't say anything for a few moments, it was… awkward? A strange feeling for both people in the room, considering who they were respectively.

There seemed to be something that Salem wanted to say, but stopped herself. Jericho didn't pressure her on it, it wasn't his place.

"Well, as I said, Cinder will be here soon. I recommend you meet her at the landing pad, as it will be a long trip to Vale." Salem finally spoke, before making her way back to the door with what was a strange uncertainty.

"Yeah." Was all the Courier said, nodding a thanks to Salem as she made her way out.

With a huff, Jericho turned back to begin gathering his meagre possessions. He finished cleaning his gear, making sure to remind himself to take a look at his armor when it was safer, and resituated the furniture back where they belonged.

By the time he was done, it looked like he had never been there. He still had fifteen minutes to spare before Cinder was supposed to arrive, but finding he had nothing left to do, made his way to the landing pad anyway.

The pad was in a word, _inconsistent _with the gothic ascetic of the rest of castle. It was a modern looking area complete with electronic lights that served as a beacon against the blackness around the castle.

It was obviously a newer addition.

He leaned against a railing that ringed the pad and pulled out a somehow still intact Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle from one of the many pockets in his duster and knocked off the bottle cap, which he pocketed before taking a swig of the stale beverage.

With a start, he realised he didn't need to keep track of bottlecaps anymore. They were effectively _worthless. _He was back to being poor again, whereas he would have had a veritable fortune on him back in the Mojave. With a huff, he fished out his numerous caps, and tossed them over the railing.

_Very _light footsteps alerted him to the presence of another person on the pad, making Jericho very quickly draw _Chances Knife _while spinning around.

Tyrian was standing at the doorway to the rest of the castle, cutting off the Courier's escape should he be seeking it. He stood with his hands behind his back, head hunched over with his tail swaying calmly behind him. The permanent fixture of perverse glee on his face was looking at him with the same strange hunger as before.

It made a tingle crawl up Jericho's spine, and made him white knuckle his knife.

"What do you want Tyrian." Jericho barked, trying to hide his frantic eyes, looking for an escape.

"Oh can't I just come down to see my 'new friend' off on his new adventures?" The crazy bug started giggling once again, though his tiny but large eyes stayed locked on the Courier's face.

"No you crazy sunovabitch you may not. We ain't friends, so get lost." The Courier growled, unconsciously taking a slight step back.

Tyrian merely grinned wider, ever so slowly creeping forward. "C'mon _buddy! _We were just having a friendly little fight! No need for such hard feelings." Tyrian drawled the final 's,' making him seem more like a snake than a scorpion as he laughed once again.

"I'm telling you right now _bugman, _andI'm not gonna say it again. _**Fuck. Off.**_" The Courier bit out, pointing his knife futilely at the scorpion man.

Tyrian's smile slowly faded as Jericho spoke, until he was finally just looking at him with cold dead eyes and an expressionless face. It scared the Courier more now than it had before, and that just made him angry. He hated feeling afraid, and with the source of his most recent anxiety standing right in front of him with unknown intent, he didn't know what he would do.

Tyrian started stalking forward, quicker this time. His hand were still clasped behind his back, though his tail now drifted dangerously around his head, which was leading his walk as he hunched over. Finally Tyrian was close to the Courier, who was tensed and ready to pounce. The Bug invaded his personal space, pressing his body up against Jericho's and leaning in so close that his nose was touching the stressed out Courier's. It would have been considered an intimate moment, had Tyrian not been so repulsive to Jericho.

Finally, the bugs face cracked, and that too wide smile split his face. "I don't know what our goddess see's in you that she doesn't see in me…" One of his eyes twitched briefly, "But I want you to know, you are _nothing. _Everything you can do, I can do better. And when the mistress see's that, I will take great pleasure in getting rid of you."

With that, Tyrian stalked off, a silent cackle wracking his body as the sound of squealing engines began to cut through the air.

Jericho, was still for several moments after the bug was gone. Before he threw the Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle still in his hand against the castle wall, where it shattered with a foamy explosion as the Courier let lose a series of expletives.

"I'd like to see you try you son of a bitch. Next time we fight'll be on my terms." Jericho growled to the horizon, running his right hand through his hair as he put his elbows on the railing.

Finally, after a minute of incessant turbine noise, the so called 'bullhead' landed perfectly on the pad. A few moments passed as the engines wound down into standby, until finally the side door opened. Anti-climactically, only the interior of the cabin was revealed. No one stood waiting for him.

With a sigh, the Courier marched his way forward and onto the boxy machine. He glanced around the cabin as the door slid shut, leaving him in a now familiar eerie red glow. He was immediately glancing around, standing in the middle of the cabin as he tried to focus on the fact that the walls _weren't _closing in on him.

Of the many things the Courier despised, tiny spaces was one of them. He was claustrophobic, not that it had ever stopped him. Though he tended to avoid vaults and other such underground facilities, sometimes the cramped, dark corridors couldn't be avoided. So for the sake of the job, Jericho pushed through it.

The red glare didn't help much, with it bending the shadows into movement at the corner of his eye. It seemed that paranoia would never be escaped by the Courier in this world.

The door to the cockpit opened, so not fancying staying in the dark cabin, Jericho quickly stomped his way into the even more cramped area.

Sitting in the pilot's seat, was someone Jericho would never have considered flight capable. But then again, neither did Daisy Whitman. And that old dame had always managed to teach him a thing or two about the wasteland whenever his ego got too big for his britches. Hell she even gave him some lessons in the Remnants Vertibird before she passed.

The woman in the pilot's seat however, was not Daisy Whitman, no matter how much Jericho wanted her to be. Instead, there was a decidedly more attractive woman in red. She was looking up at the Courier, her amber eyes watching him curiously as he did the same to her. She was _unnaturally _pretty. Her face was perfect, her hair doing just what it needed to accentuate her looks while leaving you wanting more. Her body was equally odd, she was curvy and busty, in such a way Jericho never thought possible. She was maybe a year or two older than the Courier, but you would never guess it if you put them side by side.

Remnant was strange, he was coming to realise.

However, a better sight than the beautiful woman looking at him expectantly, was the wide open view of the passing landscape right in front of them. Wordlessly, the Courier tore his eyes away from the buxom brunette and sat down in the vacant co-pilot's seat, staring out at the crawling horizon.

It was breathtaking, and like the castle, equally eerie. The horizon that was now clear of obstruction, was blood red, the perpetually setting sun was of a similar color. It was so large in the sky that it reflected off of the black sand below. Black mountains sped past them, framing the untamed and _dangerous _land of Grimm below the feeble fly machine.

Flying Grimm occasionally fluttered through the sky, seemingly unaware of the most certainly not stealthy bullhead. From vultures to giant ravens and to even larger monsters that had no discernable form and did nothing but confuse the Couriers eyes. It was a beautiful nightmare that really drove home just how _far _from home he really was.

With a deep breath, thankful that the walls were no longer closing in now that he could focus on the horizon, he finally turned his attention to the pilot. The woman, who seemed mildly annoyed that she had been ignored in favor of the landscape, merely gave him an up and down glance.

"Cinder Fall, I presume?" Jericho asked, hunching his shoulders unconsciously in discomfort at the tiny area.

"Courier Six, not exactly what I was expecting…" Cinder muttered neutrally.

"It's been a rough couple of days, I'm usually much more imposing." The Courier returned sarcastically. He didn't know how much Salem had read of his notes, and he had never introduced himself to her in any way. And the few notes about him were collected from either Ulysses or Mr. House. So she must have dug through them all in order to get his name, or at least, his title.

Cinder huffed, mildly amused. "I'm sure you are. Is Courier Six you're real name or just something you call yourself?"

"What's the difference?" The Courier mused with a mild smirk. Though seeing the mild glare coming from his female contemporary, he continued to speak with a shrug. "Job title. Names Jericho." He let silence reign for a few moments, seeing what Cinder would do. She however, was simply content to let him ask the next question.

"What has Salem told you about me? All I know about you, is that she says you are someone I should listen to." The Courier asked conversationally.

"She told me that you were from the deepest part of the desert in Vaccuo, it's a place not even she understands however strange that might seem. So you would most likely need our help to get adjusted to our 'world' as it were. She said you would explain more to me when you were ready to do so." Cinder finished, glancing at the Courier to see his reaction.

Jericho, for his part, just grunted an acknowledgement. He seemed to weigh something in his mind for a few moments before nodding slightly to himself. "I'm from a place called the Mojave, and as you can probably tell by my job title, I was a mailman."

Cinder, just looked him up and down once again with an eyebrow raised in a skeptical look, eyeing his various armaments and the heavy duty armor he was wearing.

The Courier just chuckled, always enjoying the reaction of folks whenever he described himself as a simple mailman. "I guess it's a little more complicated than that. We don't have any of your fancy CCT systems in the Mojave. So we've got a Courier service to carry our messages. I was one of them, specifically, I was one of six hired to do a job. All we had to do was deliver one tiny thing and we would get a hefty pay day." Jericho stopped for a few moments, flipping the fabled platinum device, now inert and merely ornamental in his hand.

"I'm sensing a 'but' coming up." Cinder said, with a mild smirk.

"'But' I ended up digging my own grave on top of a hill while some checkered asshole took this thing from me." Jericho said, holding up the Platinum Chip in his left hand. "Shot me twice in the head and left. Now before you ask, we don't have any of your fancy 'aura's' out in the Mojave. So it usually only takes one bullet to put you down." He continued, as Cinder's eyes widened slightly.

"You're still here though." Cinder said, putting to use her spectacular observation skills.

"Guess Benny didn't get the memo that I'm_** the **_fucking _mailman."_ Jericho said, not willing to continue that line of questioning just yet. With a growl however, he muttered "Spite is a powerful motivator."

Cinder at least, could understand that.

She hummed in agreement, secretly enjoying having a regular conversation she didn't necessarily have to maneuver her way through to try and manipulate anyone. "So what's so special about your poker chip?" She asked, respecting his unspoken wish to not continue speaking about how he got shot.

"The Platinum Chip, was one of the most sought after items in the Mojave. Everyone wanted it, and I had it. It contained the data necessary for the creation of an advanced series of robots. Could, and would tip the balance of power in the desert. Data's all gone now, I ended up in control and no one else could contest me. Now it's just… a reminder." Jericho finished with an oddly reverent glare at the Chip in question.

The horizon began the clear as they flew out into Open Ocean. The sky became a refreshingly clear blue and the clouds were drifting lazily in odd shapes. It made the Courier smile, to see that the whole world wasn't tinged with red. He was excited to be flying so high up, not having an urgent mission to worry about or an upcoming battle. He could just relax and _watch _the understated beauty of being so high up in the air.

Silenced grew between them once again, Cinder not thinking of any good way to continue the conversation, as she didn't want to pressure him into revealing things he would rather not, and the Courier was just brooding in his seat.

Several minutes passed before Jericho couldn't keep himself distracted by the horizon, prompting him to speak again. "So what about you?" Hoping to divert attention away from himself and perhaps learn something about his supposed companion.

"What about me?" Cinder asked all too innocently, to which the Courier just gave her an unimpressed look.

"Listen sweetheart, you don't get to enjoy story time without sharing some of your own fun little experiences, so…" The Courier finished, gesturing expectantly with his left hand.

* * *

The forest was jaw dropping. He had seen some more 'wooded' areas before in places like Zion, but they couldn't even capture the same majesty that Jericho was blessed with right now. The supposed Forever Fall Forest was a harsh scarlet contrasted with grey tree trunks. Red leaves apparently grew on every tree in the forest, and the forest floor was just an immaculate, almost undisturbed and peaceful rose color.

Nothing had ever struck the Courier like this. He had seen beautiful vistas and spectacular sunsets, hundreds of beautiful broken landscapes all across Arizona, Nevada, and California, filled with a maudlin and picturesque devastation. But this was just different from the deserts back home, this was filled with life!

So enraptured was he that he didn't notice the landing of the craft until it was already on the ground. He looked to his chauffer for the day, questioning with his eyes why they had set down in the middle of the forest and not Vale itself.

"You will have to walk from here. It's maybe a day north west of here." Cinder said with none of her usual braggadocio. The moment the Courier demanded some stories from the _girl _– for he refused to think of this petulant woman as anything but – she shut up like Christine Royce. All through the flight she refused to speak anymore and while naturally curious as to why, Jericho was more than happy to ignore her in favor of doing some more research and gazing out into the world.

Jericho barely hid a sneer, feeling this was some sort of power play or punishment for a perceived slight. Didn't really matter though, being cooped up in that tin can was making him antsy so it was a good idea to stretch his legs.

He couldn't hide the rolling of his eyes though, if the mild twitch in the brunettes face was any indication. He got up and quickly made his way out of the Bullhead. A quick look around revealed forest in all directions, which was concerning.

Truthfully he had expected that the moment he stepped off the bullhead Cinder would just fly away without so much as a goodbye, but such was not his luck. "Wait," the woman of his current thoughts called out to him as he began situating himself. "There are things I need to do to you." She continued.

'Why'd you have to say it like that?' Jericho thought to himself, privately, within his own head. He knew the woman didn't mean it, so his thoughts were more petulant than hopeful or scorned. Regardless, he turned to her and waited expectantly. "What then? Is now the time to have our conversation?" He almost growled.

Cinder just turned her nose up at him before she came down the ramp. Without saying another word, she put her hand on his armored chest and began reciting some mystic mumbo jumbo gobbledy gook that he didn't really bother to listen too before he fell to the floor with a splitting headache.

Cinder didn't seem to fare so bad, though she did seem a bit frazzled. "The hell did you do to me?!" Jericho demanded.

"I-I was told to unlock your aura by mistress Salem… But I just couldn't!" She said, forgetting momentarily she was supposed to be a sexy femme fatale as she stuttered her way through this new mystery. "It was so small… Your soul was so small and I tried to pull it out to activate your aura and it just hid away." She said, seemingly genuinely sad. Hell, Jericho didn't really expect her to care that much. She just didn't seem like the type.

Though why did she have to call his thing small? Really helping a guy's confidence there Cinder.

"The fuck does any of that even mean? Like goddamn woman warn a guy before you go fishing for the meta-physical." Jericho retorted angrily. He felt mildly violated, not unlike the feeling he got from Tyrian just to a lesser degree. He didn't like the idea of someone going looking for his soul, and even less so when there was obviously something wrong. It felt like a fatal weakness he shouldn't let people know about, or a private embarrassing detail of your personal life. It was just uncool.

"Whatever," Jericho spoke again, shaking off the anger and the pain throbbing through both his head and as a new development, his neck and left arm. "Just give me a damn compass and I'll find my way. Unless you've got a map I can use."

Cinder, looking at him now as a curiosity or sideshow freak rather than a human just nodded and tossed him a tiny device that expanded into a screen. She directed him on the basics, and how to use the map feature, before just spinning on her heel and taking off in the bullhead. No instructions, nothing but get to Vale.

"Well, Shit."

**Not Dead Yet.**


	4. By a Campfire on the Trail II

The bullhead squealed away into the air and the Courier just let out a disgruntled huff. His helmet was off, and he held it to the side leaning against his left hip. Disregarding the petulant woman and her flying mobile, Jericho stopped and looked around. It was trees as far as the eye could see, red's and grays were the only color besides the pretty blue sky just above them.

A deep breath revealed an assault from all the things Jericho had never smelled quite like this. Damp wood, musty leaf's, flowers and bushes. It was all so new to the young man he didn't exactly know what to do other than gaze around in wonder.

There were animals making noises, returning to their regular routines after the bullhead flew away. The chirping of so many different birds, the sound of bugs like bee's and flies and none of them were coming to kill him. It was just so peaceful. He was stood still for so long that one of those aforementioned honey bees flew right up to him, bumping into his jacket buzzing happily in search of flowers.

These were all things he had never experienced, only read about or heard in bars with surly explorers who were too deep in their cups. In the Mojave everything would try and kill you. Bugs beasts or bastards it really didn't matter what it was, if you heard a noise it was probably something that wanted to eat your still living corpse.

But not here, right now it was just wondrous.

After a few minutes of simply basking, Jericho collected himself and began taking stock of his situation. He had been provided with a basic survival guide by Salem, who commanded Cinder to give it to him. Along with that was just a simple bag with a few miscellaneous items; she knew he didn't need much. So, he didn't need to begin experimenting with the different plants to figure out what they did. That didn't stop him from collecting however.

Like a little girl unknowingly lost in a garden, the gruff and stoic, badass and indomitable, conqueror of the wastes and killer of ghosts himself, went around picking flowers. And moss, and grass, anything really. Of the few items he was given, a large amount of disposable plastic bags were among them. So for each distinct flower, berry or leaf or anything of the sort he found, he put in those bags like some demented and heavily armed botanist.

He hummed happily to himself as he moved along, humming the tune to 'In the Shadow of the Valley' as he casually wandered in the general direction Cinder had pointed out. Momentarily forgetting his woe's while simply enjoying this new life.

It was unbroken peace for hours, nothing accosted him and no one approached him. His duster kept him warm and kept the sun off of his shoulders. Something in the back of his mind was telling him that he was making this perhaps one day jaunt into a two day walk, but he really didn't care. His first experience with anything resembling this place was Zion and the moment he walked into that canyon he and most of his companions were shot. Then he had to fight a war. Not exactly enough time to smell the roses so that was exactly what he was going to do right now while he had the chance.

'Was this the kind of world America was before the war? Damn them!' Jericho thought, punching right through his good mood. How dare the people of the old world destroy not only themselves but everything with them. He had never really considered the question of why the world was the way that it was, even as he wandered through the Divide and its scenic broken highway's. He was always to busy not getting eaten by a Deathclaw.

But seeing all this beauty really put everything into perspective. His life and lives of so many others could have been more than just surviving the damn desert, and those people almost two hundred years before, had to go and fuck it all up.

He had to go fuck it all up.

With a growl he pushed thoughts of the Mojave and the world left behind to the side. He had lost track of time, finding, collecting and marking down each of the bits of flora he could match up to the survival guide and the sun was beginning to set. The sky was cast in a warm orange glow, and Jericho was only just now noticing he was almost at the top of a hill. The light through the tree's warped that warm glow into a haunting crimson, and the horizon that revealed itself to the young man as he crested the large hill was awe inspiring.

He could possibly spend another hour or two wandering around the forest, make a bit more headway on towards Vale, but he paid that niggling thought no never mind as he began setting up camp on the top of that big hill.

He was content just leaning against a tree watching the sunset turn into night, searing that image into his brain and marking the location he was currently at on his handy dandy little scroll. He might have to come back here.

Before the light was entirely gone however, Jericho set about building up a campfire and clearing a little place to sleep. The stars were out now and it felt like he could see the whole universe from here. The moon was a sad sort of gorgeous. To the Courier it represented his failure, and just how alien everything here was, but it still had its beauty and he could appreciate it nonetheless. He was just dozing off next to the toasty fire when his sleepy eyes caught a glimpse of it.

Vale, way in the distance he could see it. Not because of the moon's glow, but because of the enormity of the city and all of its lights. It was like Vegas all over again. And overlooking it all was an enormous tower on a cliff, seemingly a **Beacon **to all around. The tower was grandiose marble and white stone, surrounded by similar in aesthetic buildings and ringed in a strange sort of aqueduct. All of it could be seen from the tall hill Jericho sat on, enraptured in wonder at the sheer majesty of mankind.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Jericho couldn't sleep, time ticked away in the back of his mind like an incessant clock, the constant knowledge that he needed rest doing nothing to provide any respite. The sky was unfamiliar, the constellations were all wrong and the moon was _broken! _He couldn't bring his thoughts away from it, making him feel like an alien in his own skin, an outsider, a stranger in a strange land.

The fire was still burning hot, bathing the top of the hill in a warm orange glow, just deeper than the sunset. Jericho whipped his hand to his belt, snapping upright and drawing _That Gun _and pointing it in the direction of Vale.

He could just see it, a figure in the dark, just on the outside of the campfire. He couldn't make it out, his tired eyes not helping in the slightest as he squinted at it. His breathing picked up as the figure began to creep into the firelight. When the figure was fully visible Jericho found he couldn't breathe much at all.

Robert Edwin House stood in front of him, young, suit clad and smarmy. The ghost took out a cigarette from a packet he pulled from the inside of his immaculate suit jacket and lit it with a gold plated flip lighter he drew from his right pocket. "Jericho." He said politely, in that perfect upperclassman's voice. He took a drag from the cigarette and moved a little closer, taking a seat on a nearby rock, leaving him looking down at the still unbreathing Courier.

Finally shaking off his stupor, Jericho shot him.

It didn't do much. Oh, the Courier would have hit him, no doubt about that. It just seemed he wasn't there.

The sound of a gunshot rang out across the night, causing a flock of crows to go fluttering, but The House just looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"I think you got me the first time." He drawled sardonically, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Jericho, shaking and scared, _almost _dropped his pistol.

The House continued on, not even blinking at the Couriers state. "No gods, no masters." He said, brown eyes boring into the poor Courier. "That's what you said when you shot me the first time. And it's what you said when you shot Caesar, and it's also what you said when you let Kimball get shot."

"No gods, no masters." Another drag from the cigarette as Jericho slumped back down into his little nest.

"If there is one thing I can't abide, its hypocrite's. You at least, I could respect because you were consistent, but now? Well… I'm not so sure." He looked around a moment. "Do you remember what I said to you? We don't have to dream that we are important, we simply are? You would take orders from that witch _woman _just because of a little bit of kindness and some fluttering of the eyes?" He continued, eyes never straying from the downcast mailman.

"The Wasteland Wanderer, Courier Six, killer of the son of Mars, breaker of the Bull, crippler of the Bear. The fucking **Mailman.**" He said mockingly. "You conquered the Mojave, saved Zion, destroyed the nuclear stockpile in the Divide, and forced the brains of Big MT. into submission and did all the things I could not. And now look at you. It almost makes me regret taking you on as my agent… well, more than I did when you shot me." House stated matter of factly though not without a hint of bitterness.

"Centuries of work you ended for that stupid little phrase and then you just left it all behind for what? A lead on the Rose?" He scoffed. "Helpless infatuation with that woman aside, it seems to me that all you did was replace all those people who were your supposed 'master' with yourself. Your anarchic democracy seemed more like despotic monarchy to me, but of course it just had to be you running the show didn't it?" House said, finally letting his tone drawl into anger.

Jericho was looking down in shame, defeated.

"And now you what? Meet the new man on the silver mountain and just go right back to playing the good little tool and doing what you were asked. No gods no masters Ha! What a load a' shit." House laughed bitterly, as if he genuinely expected more from the out of his depth nineteen year old.

"You spent hard years of your life trying to escape those infuriating 'masters' and all you do is go crawling right back to the first one to give you a meager bit of purpose. That is not the man I know! Not the agent I crafted, and most certainly not my successor! You aren't some reedy little boy anymore Jericho, you can't just wander from place to place aimlessly in search of purpose. You're supposed to be a man!" House said, now shouting into the wind.

"It's not like that!" Jericho shouted back.

"No?! Prove it boy, you might still think you are the goddamn wildcard but right now you are nothing more than a Joker now get this through your thick skull. You. Are. Courier. Six! Not some woman's whipping boy, not some lunatic's punching bag, not some petulant trout's tool, **NO GODS, NO MASTERS!**"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Jericho woke up with a start, screaming out into the cool morning air, reaching desperately for his pistols as he dodged the wild swing of a sneaking wolf Grimm. Three bullets carefully placed around its armor put it down forever, and left the young man sweaty and shaken.

He scrambled wildly over the dull embers that were the only remains of the fire from the previous night, before finally stopping. He waited a few moments while the Grimm dissolved, before letting out a heavy breath and placing the top of the gun against his forehead.

He got up, screamed angrily and kicked a rock down the hill in impotent rage. Who was House to judge him? The ancient, shriveled man never had to experience the trials of the wasteland, never had to fight for a bottle of water or defend himself from packs of Deathclaws. It was easy for him to look down on the wasteland as he sat safe in his vault, surrounded by concrete and steel, and guarded by hundreds of Securitrons.

House turned him, someone who should have died in a shallow grave into one of the greatest legends of the wasteland. And a mass murderer. One can't come without the other, but Jericho had an affliction. He had an almost perfect memory. He could remember every single swing or every single bullet that killed someone by his hand. He could recall in perfect detail the mangled corpses that were left in his wake, and all the other horrors of the wasteland.

He was foolish to question ol' No-Bark, No-Bark was the sanest one of them all.

No Gods, No Masters. Greed was the only reason for it. Greed and anger. He walked through the wasteland on the Legions orders and got to see it in all its ugliness. Saw the NCR and its general failure as a working state. And saw the Mojave under the control of House. He would have done better than all of them. None of them knew the wasteland like he did. Not even Ulysses.

The Mojave was his by right, he claimed it, defended it, and solved its problems so what if he killed his competitors to get there? House was a ruthless capitalist, someone would have to lose if he ruled as he wanted. The NCR would drain the Mojave for all its resources and forget about its people. And the Legion would have nailed everyone to a cross. Jericho was the only one who cared.

His companions stood by his side, Boone was surprising enough considering his upbringing and wasn't that a terrifying story to tell to the former 1st recon sniper. He put the man in charge of regional defense of the Mojave, a position he excelled in once he was given free rein to do it.

He had Cass given back her caravan and gave her exclusive trading rights to many valuable goods that flowed through Vegas, and with help from Raul she actually made a pretty good go of it before she disappeared.

He let Lily go back to the mountain, her mental state was deteriorating more and he didn't want to watch it, as cruel as that may have sounded.

And with Arcade, Veronica, the Brotherhood and surprisingly the Enclave remnants, they managed to begin production of computer parts and even some robots. Before Jericho left they were working on producing more Securitrons.

He was doing well, people were living and things were slowly turning around for the Mojave under his leadership, so what by right did House judge him?

Jericho finished his internal rant and lament, sitting down and taking some deep breaths. With a final sigh he pushed the dream out of his mind and set about packing up his meagre campsite. He had places to be and he had spent enough time dilly dallying around the forest.

The walk was actually quite brisk now that the Courier had some angry energy to burn. The Forever Fall Forest began to bleed away into more normal green leafed trees. It was still a beautiful sight to see, but Jericho didn't stop to smell the roses this time around. He encountered a few minor Grimm, who were according to his handy little guidebook, attracted to negative emotions. Apparently his anger qualified for attractive in the demon's eyes.

They died like everyone else who crossed the Courier's path until finally at around midday he was at the great gates to Vale. A group of armored folks milled around a barricade just outside the open gates. Now that he was closer he was beginning to wander amongst a steadily increasing throng of foot traffic. Whether they be travelling by vehicle, animal, carriage or the good old fashioned walking. It was reminiscent of home.

He waited patiently, honestly having nowhere else to be other than _in _the city until it was finally his turn to talk to the border guards.

The woman he approached looked him up and down with an interested look on her tired face. She took stock of his guns and then his armor. He approached her with his helmet on, so she couldn't see his face.

"Are you a huntsman, stranger?" She asked politely.

Jericho was a little confused until he recalled the mention of huntsmen from his little bit of time in Salem's library. "No, Courier." Was all he said.

The woman looked him up and down again before she gave a quick, amused huff. But she didn't question it. "Alright Courier, what's your business in Vale? Delivering something?"

"Yeah." Jericho said intelligently. He wasn't lying, he was delivering himself as instructed.

Again, the woman smirked bemusedly. "Alright then, keep those guns holstered and your hands to yourself and we won't have any problems. If you have any questions ask over there." She finished, pointing to a small complex of information kiosks and actual people.

Jericho was a little surprised the questioning wasn't more in depth than that, but he didn't question his good luck. Maybe they were a bit busy and just wanted him out of the way.

Jericho didn't have any questions, but it was a good idea to get all the information he could before wandering into an unknown place. So he walked over to a kiosk and collected some pamphlets. Most of them were advertisements for shops, but he did find an actual physical map which he immediately pocketed.

With that finished, he finally entered the gates and was struck dumb by the metropolitan magnificence of the City.

He didn't really know what he expected out of Vale, he assume it would just be a bigger Vegas with bigger problems. But he was wrong, Vegas was big, at least for the wasteland. Flagstaff was very big, even compared to pre-war towns. Shady Sands was a city born anew, but none had the size, activity, or sheer _presence _this city bombarded you with.

Each of those cities still felt like the wasteland, you always had to watch your back. Vale, you could clearly tell when the dangers of the outside stopped and the casual life of the people in the city began. It was another mind boggling experience.

Jericho wasn't really sure he needed any more earth shattering revelations about just how _bad _the wasteland was at the moment, so he began focusing on things he could change or get a handle on right now.

He needed money, which was just a basic fact. Salem hadn't provided him with anything other than the bare essentials for travelling, so he needed to find some odd jobs he could do. He was a Courier by trade after all, and with all the skills he had picked up here and there, he had plenty of marketable abilities people would kill for.

Then he needed to find someplace to sleep; for now a back alley would do fine, he had roughed it in Freeside before, but soon he would need something a little more substantial. Then, he needed to find Cinder, because apparently he now answered to her. That thought burned in the pit of his stomach more than he thought it would, again the image of house shouting his own mantra at him flashed before his eyes.

He continued to ramble in his mind for a bit as he wandered and browsed the nearest shops. Distracting himself with the many oddities and items while surveying the people around him. None of them looked like they had been outside the walls before, they were like the Shady Sands upper class, but it was all of them. They were carefree, living their lives as best they could but with all the advantages your average waster never got. It made him angry, sad and regretful all at the same time. Why couldn't he have had this life instead of the one he got?

It just wasn't fair.

Before he could continue spirally down a train of useless thought, someone seemed to think they could pull a fast one on him. A quick bump would have left anyone else stumbling, but Jericho wasn't exactly a small or unskilled man. He felt a hand darting into his duster, most likely looking for coin, but it ended up wrapping around the handle for _Big Boomer _just as he wrapped his own hand around the arm.

The girl it was attached to was both mighty surprised, and mighty scared. Jericho sighed, sad that even here in what he had deemed the perfect city, there was still cutpurses. He held on tight to the girl so she wouldn't get away as he looked her over. She was obviously malnourished, gaunt, and pale even against her chocolate skin and her hair was mint. She seemed to have weapons of her own, which her other hand was scrambling towards.

"Don't." He growled, squeezing her wrist. She stopped and winced at the pressure before she looked up at him pleadingly.

Jericho sighed but didn't take his hand off of her arm, though he did loosen the pressure. She seemed to have one of them Aura's Salem had talked about, the amount of pressure he put on her could have broken her hand, but there didn't seem to be any residual discomfort.

He was stuck, he didn't know what to do about this. No harm was done but these were matters of respect more than they were about the money. "What's your name?" He grumbled unhappily.

"E-Emerald." She stuttered, not enjoying looking at his mask.

"Are you hungry Emerald?" Jericho asked. He didn't have money, but he had some supplies. The Courier might have been quite literally _heartless _but he wasn't emotionless, he recognized what was going on here. The girl seemed to think she needed to steal to survive, he had seen in plenty of times. At least she was doing it in a relatively harmless way, he had seen plenty of folks who were a lot less friendly.

The girl nodded frantically, though when she realized she was nodding she immediately stopped. She didn't want to reveal anything to a stranger, that got you killed on the streets.

Jericho just nodded and said "I'm going to let you go now, you can run off if you like. However, I have extra supplies I won't need to carry, and I'm willing to share. It's your choice." And with that, he calmly let go of her arm.

Emerald took two steps back and rubbed her sore wrist. She seemed like she wanted to run, but both her curiosity and her stomach got the better of her.

Jericho took that as her answer, so he reached up to his helmet and took it off. While the desert ranger armor was a symbol worthy of respect in the wasteland, here it was just an impersonal mask. He had enough experience with skittish thieves, diplomats and soldiers to have built up a bit of _charisma_ so he shot her a disarming smirk and said "My names Jericho." Before he gestured her to follow him. He spotted a park a little bit away that would be a good place to eat.

After a bit of hesitation, the mint chocolate themed woman followed behind.

The park was large, tree's dotted the broad rolling green landscape of hills and clean cut grass. Folks played or visited happily amongst themselves, safe within the walls. There were fire-pits scattered about, picnic benches adjacent to them. Jericho set off for one of these places in particular, and while he may have wanted a fire just for the warmth and ambiance it provided, he didn't have anything to burn. So he took a seat on the bench and began rifling through his gear, producing some leftover trail rations, a can of beans, and a few other miscellaneous foods. It was by no means a high class meal, but it was better than nothing at all.

Such was a sentiment the younger girl obviously agreed with, considering she didn't complain one iota about what was being presented to her.

Jericho simply gestured for her to take what she wanted, which finally got her sitting down across from him. Jericho sat quite comfortably, however Emerald seemed to fidget in place, not entirely comfortable with silence in the presence of the stranger she just tried to rob.

"Why do you carry so many guns?" She asked intently though she didn't turn her attention away from the food.

"Guns are my religion." Jericho replied dramatically. It wasn't necessarily true, but it was close enough to the truth to suit his needs for this conversation. "Of all deities people have tried to pawn onto me, none have had my back better than the guns I carry."

Emerald looked at him askance, "How can guns be a religion? Aren't those supposed to be based on faith and fear?" She said a little petulantly, and a little confused.

Jericho looked at her quizzically, "I have plenty of faith in them, I maintain them and use them after all. And who isn't afraid of the bullet?" Jericho was big fan of self-determinism, he didn't feel he needed the hand holding of some god. Graham found his comfort in the big G himself, Jericho only needed his weapons to feel safe.

Emerald again shot him a strange look, as if he was an oddity. He supposed he was, in a way. Not many would openly feed those who tried to rob them and then declare their spiritual allegiance to the cold death dealing gun.

"Forget I asked…" She mumbled. "So why are you back in Vale? What did you hunt out there?" She asked, wrongfully assuming he was a huntsman.

"This is my first visit actually, I'm a Courier and I'm supposed to meet with someone." He retorted simply.

"Then why are you here and not there?" Emerald waved her little trail fork at him accusingly.

"The woman I'm supposed to meet is a bit of a bitch." Jericho said with a flat expression causing his dining companion to suddenly bust out laughing. The Courier cracked a smile at her before scooping some more room-temperature canned beans into his mouth.

When Emerald recovered from her little giggle fit, Jericho decided to change the direction of the conversation back around on her. "So why is someone like you pick pocketing us lowly civilians out on the street?" He fired at her, not antagonistically but instead with curiosity and sympathy.

Such was a combination the slightly younger woman didn't seem to get too often, as she took a moment to process what she was going to say. "No one wants a _street-rat_ do they?! Even when I was growing up I never got more than a few lien to help feed me! They just leave me out on the street in the rain to die!" She vented, "I don't have any official papers so I can't get a job or a place to stay, and I've got no friends…" She stopped, voice cracking as she realized she was talking to a complete and utter stranger.

Jericho just nodded. "I understand." And he did, he'd spent enough time on the road to know what it was like, and even then most wasters lived a few steps below most of the homeless in Vale seemed too. "You can come with me then. As I said I've got some people to meet and I could always use someone to watch my back." He said, satisfied with his conclusion. He had pulled people into adventures on less, so what was the difference with Emerald?

The girl in question spluttered, taken aback. "W-What?! Why would I go with you! I don't even know you!" She stated loudly.

"Yeah, and? Real question is why not go with me? What's keeping you here other than your stealing?" He accused. He didn't remember Veronica being this hard to recruit, though that may have been because she asked to come along.

Again, Emerald seemed shocked. So much gaping all in one day couldn't be good for a girl. But truthfully, what was keeping Emerald here? Why not go with him? She began asking herself these questions until she came to the tentative conclusion that it might not be the worst idea she had ever been presented with.

Emerald took almost a minute to reply, and her face went through a mix of emotions before settling on wary curiosity. "Ok… But if you try anything I'll make you regret it! I'm not just some tool to be used! I'm going to be great and powerful one day!" She barked at him, gaining some fire as she spoke.

Jericho took note of her last statement but didn't say anything specifically about it. Though it did bring his memory back to the dream from the night before. He nodded before speaking again. "Wouldn't dream of it." He stopped talking then, finishing up his food as he spotted a familiar dress on one of the walking paths in the park.

He collected his disparate things –Emerald having finished eating almost before they started talking- and stood up. "You know, a friend once told me something that has stuck with me. We are of a different stock you and I, we need not dream that we are important, we simply are." He finished, looking Emerald directly in the eye, hoping to convey that he understands.


End file.
